


got a plan and it's divine

by pvwork



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: I Can't Believe I Wrote This, M/M, Manga Spoilers, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-21
Updated: 2014-07-21
Packaged: 2018-02-09 21:29:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1998489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pvwork/pseuds/pvwork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's at least half a dozen shirts stuffed into this cardboard box and he's planning to re-gift them all to his favorite little brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	got a plan and it's divine

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [tfln ft. HQ!!](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/62859) by textsfromthecourt. 



You do your best _not_ to think about it. 

It’s all very trite and cliche if you think too much about it. So you don’t. You don’t think about small shoulders set to ready-steady-go with a number ten hanging between the wings of his shoulder blades. 

He’s flown out of your reach. 

It’s not like you can’t get the smell of his damn cologne out of your closet or the taste of him off of the lip of your favorite mug. You definitely don’t have the the image of him walking away from you burned into the back of your eyelids. He hadn’t even cast a glance back over his shoulder to see if you were actually okay with this whole arrangement crashing down around your ears and ending with the same abruptness as it began with.

Not at all.

You start by finding a box.

**50% cotton, 50% rayon, Made in China, crewneck tee, black**

He fucks with the lights on and it’s one of your favorite things about him, aside from his clever fingers and his wicked grin. 

He’s got this _way_ about him that makes his intentions very clear, and you like that honest part of him almost as much as you hate it. 

This isn’t a pity fuck, there have been too many repeat performances by now, but you rip his shirt off quickly as if he might decide to chime “Take backs allowed!” in a bright voice while dancing away. 

“I’m not going anywhere. We can take it slow,” he whispers, tugging at your thin, bleached hair, and you breathe against the soft skin right behind his ear. You tug at his pants and make quick work of buttons and zips that are no match for your teenage eagerness.

“But why?” 

He groans when you wrap your hand around his half hard cock and stroke once, dry and quick. 

“Okay, fine, you win.” 

You laugh because you so rarely do these days and it feels like the sweetest victory you’ve ever had. Karasuno’s Small Giant is putty in your hands, sprawled on your bed begging for it and for once, you’re happy you aren’t on the starting team because if you had to play a game with him on the same court, you wouldn’t ever be able to make eye contact with him with the knowledge of what you do off the court hanging over your heads the way it does.

It’s filthy, the way he gasps into your mouth when you kiss him hard, and you grin as his hands scrabble against your skin. The harsh light catches on the sweat beading at his throat, and you lick it away only to nip at the tender skin, bringing out the red blush of blood as he moans your name. 

**100% cotton, Made in Peru, white graphic tee, red silkscreen print: tiger head**

“Do you think I could ever play on a professional team?” he asks. There’s wonder shot through his voice as he watches old, grainy videos of volleyball games from Olympics past. 

“You’d have to leave the country,” you answer easily as you push his leg out of the way so you can turn the page of the book you’re reading. Then you grab his leg and pull it back, so it’s once again propping your book open. “What, you’re thinking of going pro?” 

“Tsukishima-kun! Don’t be like that! I’m going to dream big, so I’ll always have a direction to run in and a destination to expect.” 

“Uh-huh.” 

You kiss his knee. He should be icing the bruise, a blue and green monstrosity, covering most of his kneecap, but he’s laying on the floor of your bedroom hogging your laptop instead. 

Kei-kun is running around downstairs screaming for fruit and cookies and dinosaur stories and you grimace apologetically as you get up. 

“Don’t move. He doesn’t know you’re here. I’ll get him a snack.” You check your watch and when you see the time you take the opportunity to lean over him, he’s pretty short guy and you’re not, so you can kiss him until he’s looking up at you the way he usually does against the opposing team on a volleyball court. 

It sends thrill through you. Knowing you can make him like this, want you so hungrily in a way that people usually only feel towards things they want to spend their lives pursuing, makes you feel powerful.

“He wants to watch his dinosaur show.” 

“I’ll be waiting,” he mutters against your lips. 

“You better,” you say as you flutter your fingers in a mocking fair well. 

**30% polyester, 50% cotton, 20% spandex, Made in Japan, blue graphic tee, white ink reads: BATTLE READY**

Kei-kun is a cold little guy. He doesn’t have many friends, and he doesn’t like many things except dinosaurs and all their descendants. 

“One more!” he screeches and you gently toss a ball that he pretends to send straight down the net, his imagination carrying the ball all the way to far corner of a volleyball court. 

He likes volleyball too, but only because he likes to pretend he’s a stegosaurus slapping down the ball with a swing of his powerful tail/arm.

“The crowd roars!” you cheer, and he dusts his shoulders off in a smarmy way only little kids can get away with. 

“I bet it’s time for my show now!” Kei-kun hoofs it back into the house.

“I’m glad you don’t have practice today!” he cries as he makes a nest of cushions and blankets in front of the tv so he can watch his educational shows in style. You’ll be the one to clean up before mom get’s home, as usual. 

“I wanted to make time for my favorite little brother, you know?” 

“I’m your _only_ little brother,” he says coolly and turns away from you so you’re left with only the lumpy cushions to sit on. 

You wave his words away and smile so he knows you’re kidding. You don’t say anything more as the jangly musical intro starts up and you quietly hug the strangely lumpy cushion to your chest and worry about what you’ll do when he discovers that you don’t actually play in the volleyball club anymore. 

They benched you for so long you quit. There’s no glory in remembering the moment you’d stepped up to the coach after a hard practice that would, again, result in nothing, and quietly said you would be quitting the club soon, and yes, I will wash and return my jersey number in a bit, I’m so sorry, things just aren’t working out, I’m busy at home. 

You notice the pull of your shirt is too tight across the shoulders and when you finally realize whose shirt you put on when you rolled out of bed from your afternoon nap to go play some ball with Kei-kun, you realize you can’t even escape him when you’re not together, on or off the court. 

**50% cotton, 50% polyester, Made in Honduras, pre-shrunk grey v-neck tee**

“Let’s celebrate,” you say as you crash into him. 

He’s freshly showered and only half dressed, the shirt he was about to put on falling out of his hands when you kiss him and he reaches for you. 

Good, you think as he surges forward so your back collides with the ridges of lockers lining the walls, hard. The pain doesn’t even register because his hands are on you and his eyes are bright and this fateful game has ended and Karasuno’s Mens Volleyball Club is victorious in a way it never would have been if you had been one of its wing spikers. 

Defeat doesn’t taste so bad when you’re sucking it off of his lips, tasting it at the back of his teeth. He’s working at the buttons of your pants and getting down on his knees and you’re gripping his shoulder and whispering, “What about--” 

And he’s grinning up at you, his eyes so wide and his grin so happy, delirious with pride and flush with this new win under his belt. Small Giant might as well be a sparkling, neon placard spinning just above his head. 

He can do anything. 

“It won’t take long,” he says as he licks his lips. 

You’re pants are around your ankles.

“Hey! Are you trying to imply something about my stamina?” 

“Relax, big guy, just take a deep breath and let me,” he laughs here and the sound goes straight to your dick much to your chagrin, “ _blow_ your mind.” 

“This is what I get for trying to be mindful of you and you’re stupid sports injuries,” you mutter.

He takes you into his mouth and the sensation rushes through your nerves, slams into your brain, has you snapping you head back against the hard metal of the lockers behind you. 

You’re so grateful you you managed to sneak in here before _he_ left and after everyone _else_ has gone. 

“Sh-shouldn’t I be doing this for you?” 

He just hums and takes you in deep enough you see stars sparkling at the edge of your vision.

This is fine too. Playing second fiddle to someone so talented isn’t a problem when he makes you feel like this, makes you feel like you’re floating out into space with one of his rough, calloused hands pressing your hips back into the lockers and the other one sliding along you as he works you even farther in until you hit the back of his throat and he swallows. 

You scream.

 **100% Polyester, Made in Japan, men’s volleyball jersey, colors: black & orange, white piping**

It starts early when you invite him over to do homework in the hopes that some of his greatness would rub off on you. 

You can both reject and fail to reject _that_ particular null hypothesis.

It turns out, yes, you can rub him off, his hips twisting in a sweet counterpoint to your own, but no, none of the greatness that makes him such an exceptional volleyball player will ever transfer onto you. 

His spikes are amazing. Yours will always be average. 

Your height gives you an advantage, but his ability to practically fly through the air to get to the ball despite his height is what makes him so formidable. 

“Akiteru, Akiteru, Akiteru,” he chants as he drives into you, his skin slapping against yours much too loudly. “You’re s-s-so good.” 

He’s a shaking mess right now, and not nearly as formidable as he is on the court.

“Thanks,” you mutter as he draws back and presses into you again. You want more than this. Being on the bench sucks, so if you’re going to sit around all your ass all day, you want to feel it. It’s like he’s trying to be careful, but you’re not even sure anymore because you’re filled to brim; it’s not nearly enough. 

Water clinging to the edge of an already full glass is an example of surface tension. You’re definitely clinging to the edge of something, as he eases into you again and hits a spot that has you scrabbling at the sheets, hissing at the heat racing through you, your back arching and your toes curling as the rest of your body screams for more. The familiar rallying cry of one more time echoes through your head. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” he yelps and tries to draw back. You’re groaning at the loss before you even realize it.

“Don’t stop. That was,” you pause and try to come up with a word through the haze of want and hate and need that’s swirling around in your head. You hate the way you’ll always be second best when he’s around. You’ll never be enough when he takes to the court, wings sprouting from his back and taking him to heights no one would have thought possible until he grinning at you the same way fresh squeezed orange juice tastes, so bright, so sweet, and a bit tart, a measure of self-deprecating making its way into his smile, so you suddenly want to root for whatever team he’s on. “That was good,” you finish lamely. 

“I didn’t want to hurt you.” 

Too late, your brain supplies, but you urge him on again with your words this time. You tell him what it feels like as you gasp and stutter around the words and he takes you so high you think you must be able to see what he sees when he’s at the apex of his jump, the world spread before him like something to be easily conquered. 

“Please,” you whisper and his hands are on you. His fingers drag against your skin and you’re coming so hard your eyes slam shut even as your body decides to try and take him even deeper. He’s making wounded noises into the back of your neck now, but you don’t fucking care as long as he doesn’t stop, and he never fails to disappoint you, always lives up to expectations. 

He picks up his stuff carefully once he leaves. 

Must be beginners luck, because after the first time he never remembers to pick up all his stuff again and you end up having to return articles of clothing he forgets. Sometimes, a shirt or two ends up under your bed or in your closet and that’s where they stay. 

As you pick at the clothes you, somehow, are just now remembering are not yours, you wonder who you should pawn these off to. 

Kei-kun drops something in the room next to yours and something tells you you don’t have to look far at all. 

It’s important you go back to college with as little baggage as possible, so you can make room for new memories.


End file.
